Adventure

Dragging Out the Details

/ Susan O. / Leave a comment

Ever read a doorstop?

Big, thick books of more than 600 pages, such as Stephen King’s The Stand (823 pages originally, which he padded out to 1100 pages on rerelease), Sarah J. Maas’s A Court of Silver Flames (757), Outlander (850), The Hour I First Believed (768), Shogun (1200), or even Les Misérables (1400 pages. I confess, I didn’t make it past 800. That’s a lot of griping about a loaf of bread) can be considered doorstops, sometimes too big to fit on shelves. Certainly, the bindings on these monsters are not destined for long-life. There are a lot of popular books whose weight will hurt your wrists holding them up.

The average book runs around 250-300 pages, or around 80,000 words. Romance and Mystery can run shorter, Science Fiction a bit longer, but Fantasy is the king of long novels, consistently running up tallies beyond James Michener, and usually for the same reasons. Michener researched his novels down to the history of the formation of the tectonic plates that formed the island where his story took place – and that was before the internet. You were going to know exactly what it was like to be in that location, no detail spared. And that is generally true of fantasy novels (and some science fiction. We’re not ignoring you, Dune, at up to 896 pages in some versions) such as the Game of Thrones series (674 pages in the hardcover) and A Memory of Light, of the Wheel of Time series, at 912 pages.

What often separates these novels apart is the need for world building. When an urban romance begins, you, as an inhabitant of the modern Earth world, already understand the location. You’ve seen cars and buses, trucks, trains, maybe a subway, even if only in a movie. You know a jet from a prop plane from a blimp. No one has to describe it for you. You know what a crowded street sounds like, the crush of people pushing past you, the colors of the traffic lights, the enticing smell of a food cart on a cold winter afternoon, the spooked raccoon leaping out of a dumpster. All it takes is a mention (“A rat the size of a pregnant chihuahua dragged a greasy box of KFC down the deserted back alley.”) and you get a picture in your head that is fairly accurate to what the author imagined.

If you’re inventing a strange new world, whether it’s an alien land with orange skies and eight-legged monsters and a generational spaceship besieged by radiation and a twenty-year old 404 error, or a land of wizards and dragons and three-headed talking sheep, and a castle that can only be seen at midnight when a full moon lands on a Tuesday and it’s being besieged by green-skinned gnomes, then the author has to spend an inordinate amount of time teaching you to imagine this place, and how to make sense of it.

Which brings me to my latest read, the fantasy novel Perdido Street Station, a 700-page monster by China Miéville. Miéville hasn’t met a 12-letter word he can’t use in a sentence, no matter how highbrow and obscure it may be to the average reader – I’m not talking words like unconditionally, but thaumaturgy and ululating and palimpsest. Now, ululating may be the exact word you need, that undulating whoop given to Native Americans and Arabic people in movies, but using a rare word six times in one book doesn’t feel right. Despite that, the novel is sublime: extremely imaginative, walking the line between fantasy, steam punk, and horror, with fantastical creatures at every turn of the page. The story is long and involved, with twists and turns that may take a while to play out, leaving you just intrigued enough to keep reading. I liked it far more than The Difference Engine by William Gibson, which came so highly recommended.

I repeat, it was an entertaining novel, with an unexpected and satisfying ending.

But it makes me think, when is enough enough? How much detail do we really need to be immersed in a setting? Miéville spares no detail in creating his world, right down to a map of his city, which the reader will reference often because he rattles off at least one neighborhood or train stop per page, as if the reader already knows the layout. Once or twice to give me a feel, fine, but do I really need to know the history of each neighborhood? Does the economic collapse of a neighborhood and the board by board building of the resultant slum really have a bearing on the story? I get it, it’s half human, half insect, but I’m losing track of head legs, human legs, and strange body parts. It’s nice to have details, but when do details begin to bog down a story, rather than elevate it? How much detail do we really need? The scattered Fremen words in Dune give the book flavor, and there’s enough of them that it comes with a dictionary in the back, but you can skip a lot of the words and still follow the story. Tolkien’s Elvish poetry in Lord of the Rings is beautiful, emphasizes the emotional depth of the ethereal elves, but you will lose no part of the story if you skip over them. Is it worth spending 200 pages of a book investing in a detailed character, only to have them die on page 300, but the story’s only half over? (Sit down, Game of Thrones. We learned not to invest after the first three characters died.)

An author’s world in their head is far more detailed than ever makes it to paper – sometimes. King’s The Stand is long, but there are several substories going on, and not one of them can be pulled out without affecting the story. Game of Thrones has so many stories going on that some characters are absent from entire volumes because there was no way to fit them in and keep it under 2,000 pages. Ayn Rand left no thought unspoken in Atlas Shrugged, at 1100 pages. Is that all you had to say, Ayn?

What’s the longest book you’ve read? Do you know a book that bogged down in so much detail you gave up? If you like imaginative steampunkish fantasy, give Perdido Street Station a try, but you’re going to need that renewal. Let us know what you think!


“Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man, very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. “The Lord help us!” he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.” – Wuthering Heights (it’s not just fantasy novels)

Sunrise on the Reaping

/ Susan O. / Leave a comment

I love the Hunger Games series. I love a good action story, and Hunger Games delivers.

Like anything else, I did read the books before seeing the films, and I do feel the films have a slight advantage (except for Mockingjay – it’s nice you made it into two parts, but seriously, you didn’t need to). The films, being visual, cut any bloat that might have been lurking. I love them. I love the casting, I love the cinematography, I love the creative storyline. Any story that can make me love and hate a character at the same time is a pretty good story.

I can’t decide which is my favorite – there’s so much to love about all of them. It’s hard to make a sequel as good as an original – and we can all think of sequels that shouldn’t be spoken of in polite company (ahem, Highlander 2, Frozen 2, Caddyshack 2, Jaws 2, Godfather 3, Star Trek 5, etc) – and few franchises can pull it off – Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and Empire Strikes Back being two of them. Hunger Games does, driving home the horror and mental devastation with unrelenting drumbeats. 

Prequels in general are easier to write (we won’t talk about Star Wars), because you generally know what came before and how it winds up. You’re just filling in the details between A and C. I’m sure Collins had a lot of the backstory written – or at least roughed out, before writing the Hunger Games prequel, Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, a title that works perfectly on many levels. This volume, too, I adored, drawing me into the characters. Even so, I felt this was the most bloated of the series, and I couldn’t always track the action in my head. The movie fixed that gloriously. As always, the original folk music is just the icing on the cake. 

And, okay, I was a year late reading it, but we were gifted with a second prequel, twenty-five years later in the timeline, the 25th games where we first meet the alcoholic mentor Haymitch, Sunrise on the Reaping.

I love Haymitch. I love Woody Harrelson for playing him to perfection. Who the heck wouldn’t be an alcoholic after all that? And to find out you might have to do it again, late in life, when you don’t stand a chance against a 17 year old professional assassin? Yo! Fill my cup! 

But for the first time in the series, this book on Haymitch left me wanting.

Sunrise suffers from what I’ve long-called “Muppet Baby Syndrome.” In the original Muppet Show, all the Muppets are adults from different backgrounds, just like people. When the Muppet Movie hit, it explored the origins of all the characters and how they all met and came together to work on The Muppet Show. 

Good film. Funny and entertaining for adults, not just kids.

Then came the cartoon Muppet Babies, and suddenly all the Muppets are all together and in the same room as infants (grrr) and no one knows why or how. Many shows have fallen into this trap, where characters are thrown together years before they should be, have always known each other, and everyone who might possibly be a new character knows everyone already, even if the character lines were already set differently. Think of Scooby Doo, with 50 years of genre, and someone now starts a series where the characters were all adopted as newborns in the same family, all at the same time. Star Trek has done this with the Strange New Worlds series. Doesn’t make sense, does it. Sometimes, the stretch is so far, it’s painful.

And that’s what Sunrise on the Reaping does. Districts are districts, large geographic areas, not single towns. It’s like saying all of Appalachia – which spans 13 states – is the size of Bird-In-Hand, Pennsylvania (pop. 537). All of the entire District 12 assembles in one place for the reaping? How do all these poor people get there? Everyone in the village is related, knows everyone, has interbred for generations, even before the war? (Okay, that’s not too far-fetched, very small towns are very like that). Or is only that town lucky enough to be reaped? We really needed to drag in Effie Trinket, 25 years early (she never seemed that old)? Why? Why not someone else? She is the only one who can ever draw names for District 12? They don’t take turns with assignments? And Caesar? Plutarch? Beetee? Mags? It seems suddenly that every character in the last four books is here in this one, too, whether or not they need to belong there, and that hits that painful spot of disbelief. Muppet Baby Syndrome. Instead of introducing us to new characters, and new backgrounds, and new stories, it feels pieced together from all the other bits that we already know. And while I liked some of the new characters, even though you knew they were doomed, I just didn’t have enough feel for Haymitch and his girl to care. 

Maybe because the story is tightly locked in by the formula, and “how many ways to kill 24/48 kids can we come up with and still make it fresh?” You can’t. It’s been done. Four times. We know what’s going to happen, and who’s going to live. That’s the way the story must play out. It can’t change, no matter what you try to make different.

Despite it all, I did enjoy it enough. Still love Haymitch. Still love the series. It’s just this book is my least favorite. 

Watch for Sunrise on the Reaping in theaters this November 20.  View the movie trailer here.

Signing off from District 13.

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Historical Children’s Fiction, Hysterically

/ Susan O. / 1 Comment

Have you ever had that feeling of dismay when something you believe and love is crushed before your eyes?

Having finished our last communal reading book, my youngest brought me another book off her shelf to read together, Bread and Butter Journey, by Ann Colver. Printed in 1972, it’s my original Scholastic copy. I loved this book when I was eight, steeped in the hoopla of Little House on the Prairie, from which I sidestepped into B&BJ, Caddie Woodlawn, Let the Hurricane Roar, Anne of Green Gables, and more. The illustrations being done by Garth Williams, of Little House fame, only made it that much dearer. I hadn’t read it in 40+ years, but I hadn’t forgotten the details. I was happy to read it again.

Bread and Butter Journey follows the 1784 travel of young Barbara Blaum (age never given, but somewhere in the 8-10 range) from her home in Pennsylvania to Ohio, where her father and her father’s friend were buying up farmland on the frontier. As in all stories with children, she misses home, misses her father, hates her brother, and in the end learns to love life more than things. Wholesome pioneer reading for the 7-11 crowd, and it’s based on the journals of the real Barbara Baum, the author’s husband’s great-great grandmother. Should be good, right?

But I am not eight anymore, and I’ve studied a lot of college-level history, especially the settling of the west. And the more I read this time, the more horrified I became, crushing my cozy memories. This book was not just historically inaccurate; it barely fit under the term historical at all. I kept stopping cold and explaining the problems to my girls as we went.

My first question mark arose when they made way on the path for the Pony Express. Hold your horses! This is Pennsylvania, 1784. The Pony Express only ran for 18 months, and the furthest east it went was St. Louis, Missouri – in 1860, 80 years in the future! I burst out laughing when they mentioned hyenas howling in the night. Yes, hyenas. An African animal that I assure you with total faith was not in the wilds of western Pennsylvania in 1784, not even in a zoo, and no one out there had ever known of. Just what was that woman thinking! I will let the idea of putting up fruit preserves slide, even though berries would be out of season (October at least). Canning food wasn’t invented until 1795, and the common Mason jar until the 1860’s. But people had been preserving fruit in jellies by pouring the jelly into pots and “sealing” them with wax or waxed paper since at least the 1500’s, so I don’t believe it, but I’ll allow it as possible. They seem to make bean soup in the matter of an hour, when anyone who’s ever dealt with dried beans (including Laura Ingalls Wilder) knows they must be soaked overnight, and even then, it takes more than an hour to cook them. In addition, it wasn’t legal to settle in the Ohio area until 1787, with the first permanent settlement in 1788. Yes, American Indians (probably Shawnee) had every right to kill anyone encroaching on their land.

Argh. The only thing that was actually right was the state of Pennsylvania existed, and there actually was a Fort Hannahstown in Western Pennsylvania. I was crushed, to say the least. My daughter loved the book anyway, though after treasuring it for so many decades, I’m ready to get rid of it. 

So what books are historically accurate for children? Okay, in 1970 we didn’t have an internet, and research had to be done in libraries or textbooks, by far a lot more time-consuming. There’s no excuse for any inaccuracies today. My favorites have always included My Brother Sam is Dead, by James and Christopher Collier, which won a Newberry in 1975 and takes place in Connecticut during the Revolutionary War. You can actually visit some of the places in the book, and if not the exact place, the towns still exist. Beware that the book is often banned in Southern schools, for including the words “hell,” “damn,” and “bastard.” Rough stuff. Spies on the Devil’s Belt is from the same era, and also takes place on the shoreline of Connecticut. 

The entire American Girl series, whether or not you want to plop down $150 for each accompanying doll, is praised for its historical accuracy. Covering different cultures and eras, from Kaya, a Nez Perce girl from the mid 1700’s, through Julie, who celebrates Chinese New Year in San Francisco in the 1970’s, the stories will give a good glimpse into what it was like to live in that time period. They’re uncomplicated, and it’s their simplicity and focus that keeps them from falling apart. 

The Little House on the Prairie series give an excellent view of 1870’s America, by someone who actually lived it. Same with Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn, perfectly accurate because Mark Twain lived them. Laurie Halse Anderson’s Fever 1793 and Seeds of America trilogy are highly regarded, as well as Number the Stars, by Lois Lowry, which won the 1990 Newberry Medal. Johnny Tremain, another oldie but goodie, still rings true today, despite its 1944 Newberry Medal. If you can find it, the book On to Oregon! by Honoré Willsie Morrow (and made into the movie Seven Alone) tells a mostly true tale of the seven Sager children who are orphaned on the trail from Ohio to Oregon. The children actually do make it all the way on their own (with a newborn) to Marcus Whitman, a real missionary who took in many orphaned children, but the movie (and tie-in novel) ends happily, ignoring the horrific end that awaited several of them during the Whitman massacre just three years later. Another book of their journey is For Ma and Pa: On the Oregon Trail, 1844 (go ahead, cue the game sound. You know you’re going to.).

What we live today is tomorrow’s history. Children may not see or understand the significance of what they live through today, but twenty years from now they will (I’m still not over the Watergate trials preempting my 8 year old TV watching, but I do get the point now). Spark an interest in the past with any of these or other amazing books, but remember, there are – and never were – no wild hyenas roaming Pennsylvania. 

Ever.  

For hands-on experiences for children, check out Old Sturbridge Village, just over the line in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, or Mystic Seaport, in Mystic, Connecticut (which is somehow farther away than Sturbridge) (discount pass here).

The Mill on the Brook

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Huckins Road, circa 1983, when it was passable until it rained.

While Cheshire is currently known as the Bedding Plant capital of Connecticut, did you know we were once a powerhouse of apples?

Way back when, in another century, when I was quite young, I can remember there being two apple trees far in the back of our yard. They were ancient, barely alive, and looked like something out of the Wizard of Oz, black and gnarled like a corpse’s hand. If they put out ten apples a year, it was a record. In fact, the entire neighborhood – the triangle of streets just past Darcey School – had these apple trees. It’s not surprising, since the old farmhouse at the top was built in 1780, the same year Cheshire was incorporated. Farms grew apples not so much for pies, but for animal feed, cider, and vinegar, which was used in pickling and preserving foods, as well as a cleaning agent and for curing hides. Apples were important.

Some fifty-five years ago, when the lower half of Huckins Road was nothing more than a dirt path, impassable to anything short of a jacked-up four wheel drive truck or tank, and the first house was being built, my father would take us for walks there, down this exotic uninhabited Brigadoon, most importantly teaching us to avoid the poison ivy that grew thick on the sides. There were two paths through the forest, and both led to beautiful waterfalls. The near one, across from our property (and loaded with poison ivy), was small, no more than 2-3 feet high, and narrow enough that if you put your feet on the right stones, you could hop across. But further down the road, past Darcey, was a high one, with a pond above it (since badly silted in by the flood of 1982). And by the pond, above the waterfall, were two stone pillars. My father, who not only had two degrees in history but whose babysitter so many eons ago had been the Prospect Town Historian, who could possibly have been born in the 1600’s, told me back then that the pillars had belonged to a mill, to hold a mill wheel driven by the waterfall. The fact there could have been industry nearby made sense to me, since the land and trees between our house and Darcey suggested an old road, and we had come across old coal deposits and odd bits of rusty tools buried in the dirt, waiting for child archeologists to treasure them.

They were fond memories, but that was all. No information seemed to exist about it. Most old maps of Cheshire stopped at the Notch, since that was where trolley and train stops were (check out the old track humps on Pamela Lane, or the bridge by Mixville Park). The Historical Society had never heard of it.

But the pillars remained. They knew they existed, and they remembered the history better than I did. Although in my teen years we played in that stream, walked up it to the big waterfall, the thick brush, briars, and mud discouraged us from further exploration (as well as the man who owned the property, who liked to fire his gun if he saw anyone so much walk down the road. And I was his papergirl.).

This view of Cuff Brook became a bookcover

But I am a determined researcher, and after decades of waiting for an internet to be built and the right information to be loaded onto it, I hit paydirt. I came across an old map of Cheshire, from 1868, that not only showed a cider mill, but two cider mills on what is actually known as Cuff Brook (no one ever knew it had a name, it was just The Brook). The T. H. Barnes Homestead still stands, built in 1817 (we knew it as the Bear’s House, because the Bears lived in it at the time, but the Barnes family took it back, and I know this because one of the Barnes was my babysitter), and these pillars may very well have been part of their old property (they have a small pond by the house, but no waterfall to turn a wheel). I believe the house marked Jos. Barnes is the one on the corner of Huckins and Hickory Lane, which dates from 1742, and has an entire tree as a crossbeam (because I used to babysit the kids in that house. Maybe we need a book called The History of Cheshire Through Babysitting). I find it amusing that the same streets are already there, including the unpaved Moneta Lane across from Winslow, and that across the street from the newly built Barnum School at Marion and Jarvis is a label of “School No. 5.” (The Hotchkiss house across from it dates from 1805, and still stands). The more things change, the more they remain the same.

So plant some apple trees this year, and bring back a piece of Cheshire history (I had two at my old house on Marion, and one was certainly old enough to date back to at least 1920). It’s good for the bees, and heirloom apples are a treat (there are more than 7500 varieties!). Cheshire is ripe with orchards, the oldest being the now-closed Norton Brothers Farm (1757), followed by Bishop Farms (circa 1780, where, in that other century, before houses seized the land, I worked picking apples, peaches, and cherries). If you need help, check out these books on apples and Cheshire!

Grow a Little Fruit Tree

How to Grow Food

Encyclopedia of Gardening Techniques

Gardening for Dummies

Home Grown Pantry

Apples of Uncommon Character

Legendary CT

New England Orchard Cookbook

Apples are from Kazakhstan

Fire cider! : 101 zesty recipes for health-boosting remedies made with apple cider vinegar

Cheshire

Landmarks of Old Cheshire

Witch Book to Read

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What’s with him and Galadriel?

Twilight set off a whole graveyard of vampire romances, and then came werewolf romances. For a while paranormal romance was the genre of the day, with people falling in love with ghosts or people in past lives – no doubt fueled by time-travel stories like Outlander. When the person you love died 200 years previous, it makes that guy at the coffee shop seem rather dull in comparison. Monsters are a thing, especially in cozy fantasy – even dragons can be a thing (let’s not forget Donkey and his Dragon mate in Shrek!). Zombies picked up the slack, but are now fading away as a genre – you can only kill them twice. 

So what’s currently “trendy” in genre fiction? What have we circled back to? Cozy fantasy is all the rage, little stories with a slice of life that ends happily, whether you’re an ogre or gnome or pixie. Horror is making a comeback, including something called Fem-gore, which is written by women for women, and includes a lot of bloody-warrior revenge themes. LGBTQ stories and stories of people of color are on the rise, giving a long-overdue boost to underrepresented segments of the population. But the largest rising genre? Witches and wizards.

She made a child do her dirty work – good or evil?

No, we’re not talking Lord of the Rings or Dragonlance (though you can read Dragonlance for either the action sequences or the burning romance of Raistlin and Crysania), but the Earthly plane stories that encompass every facet of storytelling. Magic stories. And magic is the realm of witches and wizards. Witches aren’t usually evil, even if, thanks to Wicked, we’re not sure Glinda is completely a good witch. 

Technically, a male witch is called a … witch. Wizard is also acceptable, the difference being a wizard is usually academically oriented [think Gandalf] while a witch is more self-taught [Granny Weatherwax from the Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books]. Mage is also appropriate, but warlock is a slur. Witchy stories have been around forever – the Biblical Witch of Endor (10th century BCE), Circe of Homer’s Odyssey (8th century BCE), Hecate of the Greek pantheon (Hesiod’s Theogony, 7th century BCE), Merlin the Wizard and Morgan le Fay of Camelot (minimum, the 1100’s, possibly as early as the 400’s), and the witches of Macbeth (1606). Let’s not forget the witches of  The Wizard of Oz, or the terrifying Dust Witch of Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes, the marvelous Eglantine Price of Bedknobs and Broomsticks, Samantha Stephens of Bewitched, the Halliwell sisters of the TV show Charmed, or The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. The image of witches was improved by the popularity of Harry Potter and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Children’s stories aside, the rise of New-age witchcraft has no doubt helped the rise of witch stories as well.

“Witch” or “wizard” is appropriate for men

How did witches come to have such a bad rap? Throughout history, and amplified through Dark Ages ignorance, learned men and intelligent women, women who could read, women who were opinionated, or women who had some sort of good or bad fortune that couldn’t be explained by simple means, were suspected of using dark magic to gain their knowledge, even when it benefited the community itself. Magic, voodoo, and good or bad spirits were all people had to explain what was to them unexplainable any other way. Maybe your sheep all had twin lambs, but neighbor Geoff, who took poor care of his sheep, had 5 die in birthing – surely you must have worked dark magic on his sheep! All your 15 children survived the plague? You must be a witch! While New-Age witches study nature in all its forms, in reality, no study anywhere has proven that magic – not the magician kind – has any basis in fact.

Modern stories of magic run the full gamut, from cozy mysteries (such as those by Bailey Cates), humorous fantasy (Terry Pratchett’s Color of Magic series), Courtly intrigue without the morbid gore of Game of Thrones (The Chronicles of Amber series by Roger Zelazny), to the wildly popular Discovery of Witches series by Deborah Harkness, and the book and TV series of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files. If you don’t like the idea of reading a fantasy book, try a more mainstream author like Alice Hoffman’s Practical Magic series, or The Year of Wonders, by Geraldine Brooks, or A Secret History of Witches, by Louisa Morgan. Harry Potter they are not. 

My favorite witches of literature? Gandalf, of course, from Lord of the Rings, along with Molly Weasley and Minerva McGonagall from Harry Potter, Ole Meg from Clifford D. Simak’s A Heritage of Stars, Raistlin Majere of Dragonlance, and perhaps Lady Jessica Atreides in Dune (yes, the Bene Gesserit are witches).

If you’re looking to put a little magic in your life, or just escape the pressures of our Earthly plane, check out some of these trending books!